


King Takes Knight

by BottleRedRosie



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24354943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BottleRedRosie/pseuds/BottleRedRosie
Summary: King Louis is bored.  And drunk.  And looking for company.  And Aramis is just standing there.Set very early season 1.  Vaguely ineptly attempted M/M non-con.  No graphic content.  Aramis POV.
Comments: 21
Kudos: 31





	King Takes Knight

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: R  
> Words: 5,100  
> Warnings: Vaguely ineptly attempted M/M non-con. No graphic content.  
> Summary: King Louis is bored. And drunk. And looking for company. And Aramis is just standing there.  
> Disclaimer: All is owned by someone else. I know next to nothing about French history or the novels of Dumas. So apologies for anything completely wrong or wildly anachronistic.  
> A/N: So I am extremely late (6 years?) to The Musketeers party. I’m usually a sci-fi girl, so this is so not my usual thing, but you can blame Star Trek: Picard and Santiago Cabrera for this. Although I’ve seen all three series, this occurred to me very early in series 1 (before any naughtiness with the Queen!) and hasn’t left me alone since. So here we are. Be gentle with me.

**King Takes Knight**

In the name of the Almighty Father, this was dull.

Aramis had never been one to volunteer for security duty during one of the King’s soirées, but tonight he’d drawn the short straw and Porthos and D’Artagnan were no doubt off carousing in some tavern somewhere while he stood by a door waiting for something exciting to happen.

So far, nothing exciting had happened.

Of course, it wasn’t that Aramis didn’t like parties. He liked parties as much as any red-blooded Frenchman. But when he was denied alcohol and garnered disapproving looks from Athos every time he smiled appreciatively at one of the passing mademoiselles or, truthfully Aramis did not discriminate, mesdames, boredom would undoubtedly set in.

It was alright for Athos. He was born into this high society life and somehow always managed to walk that fine line between courtier and peasant.

And was it Aramis’ fault he found it hard not to respond to the appreciative looks he himself tended to receive in return from the mademoiselles and mesdames? Surely it was the height of bad manners to ignore an innocent smile or a far less innocent come-hither glance aimed in his direction? It was only polite, after all. And Aramis was nothing if not polite.

He sighed.

Almighty Lord, but this was boring.

The King had imbibed at least four bottles of wine thus far, and while the Queen was away taking the air at the country residence for several weeks, he had no-one to advise him on kingly decorum.

No-one who didn’t wish to risk the rope, anyway.

Except for Richelieu, of course.

That snake didn’t seem to care what he said to the King, as if _he_ were the one in charge of France.

Which, technically, Aramis supposed he was.

He sighed again.

Eavesdropping on a very drunk King Louis was not his favourite evening’s pastime, truth be told.

“But I’m _bored_ Richelieu!” the King was whining, and Aramis could very much sympathise with his predicament. “Yes, wine, women and song are fine entertainments at the appropriate time, but without my Queen by my side it is all empty triviality!”

The Cardinal frowned at him. “Do you wish your guests to be sent away, Sire?”

The King blinked at him. “Oh good Lord, no!” he burst out. “Don’t be silly! Still. I need something to look forward to at the end of the evening. Something entertaining. Something beautiful.” He shifted slightly in his ornate chair. “A human connection.”

The Cardinal raised one eyebrow, and Aramis tried not to snigger.

 _A human connection_ , indeed.

There were rumours—probably best not shared if one valued one’s life—that the King had some fascinating ‘interests’, proclivities, call them what you would; particularly when the Queen was absent from Court.

“Perhaps you wish to select one of your courtiers to spend some time in private conversation with you, my Lord?” Richelieu suggested, and whatever he was actually saying, Aramis was fairly certain he wasn’t talking about any kind of conversation Aramis himself had ever been engaged in.

The King sighed again. “They’re all so _dull_ , Richelieu!” he complained. “The women are vain and insipid and the men...well to be honest, the men are vain and insipid too.”

Richelieu nodded slightly, as if in agreement. “Then what is it you desire, my Lord?”

Aramis glanced away for a moment, his attention drawn to a gentleman who had just entered the room with a very large sword at his hip.

For an instant, he almost hoped he’d lunge at the King with it, just to relieve the tedium.

But he didn’t.

Instead he grinned at Athos, who was standing on the other side of the cavernous hall, shaking his hand and clapping him on his shoulder like an old friend.

Athos seemed to have a lot of old friends.

“...I crave excitement, Richelieu! Adventure! A challenge!” Aramis caught the tail end of the King’s pronouncement, and was about to direct his attention elsewhere when the monarch suddenly added, “What about that Musketeer?” 

Aramis willed himself not to glance over in his King’s direction.

The Cardinal grunted. “Which one, Sire?” he asked shortly.

“The dark-haired one with the pretty eyes,” the King replied, suddenly enthused. “I believe I saw him here somewhere tonight?”

Aramis swallowed.

 _Don’t look, don’t look,_ he told himself sternly. _The King is_ not _talking about you..._

He looked.

Cardinal Richelieu was looking right back at him, mouth twisted up into a sardonic sneer. “You perhaps refer to the Musketeer Aramis?” he suggested, never taking his eyes off that very Musketeer.

Aramis scowled at him.

“Ooh, yes, that’s the one!” the King agreed. “Their names are all so similar. Hard to keep them straight in my head. Yes, him. Have him brought to my rooms presently. I suspect my evening is about to get a lot more interesting.”

Richelieu was still looking at Aramis when he nodded, before adding, “His too, I suspect.”

* * *

“But what does he _want_ with you?” Athos demanded, standing with his back very pointedly to the Red Guard who seemed intent on escorting Aramis off to the King’s rooms.

Aramis shrugged. His friend was trying to protect him, he knew.

If the rumours were correct, King Louis might have a penchant for blonde women, but he also had a penchant for dark-haired men.

While this didn’t bode well for whatever the King had planned for him in his private rooms, Aramis had no intention of letting Athos get himself arrested for treason in his defence.

“I believe the King may have been informed of my sparkling wit and erudite conversation,” he said, trying to enthuse a light-heartedness into the banter that he didn’t really feel.

Athos raised one very sardonic eyebrow. “ _Mis_ informed, then?” he suggested drily.

Aramis sniggered. “You’re just jealous,” he said shortly. 

“Jealous?”

“That the King wishes to spend some time with me.”

Athos’ expression sobered.

He had been standing by Aramis’ side when a minor nobleman by the name of Du Lac had been escorted from the palace to ‘the countryside’ one evening, having refused the King’s advances one too many times, so the rumour went.

‘Escorted to the countryside’ being a euphemism for having been dragged off to the Bastille in irons.

He’d been a handsome young man, tall and slim with dark curls and darker eyes and Aramis shuddered when he realised the King might harbour a consistency in preferred male companions that he lacked in so many other things.

Athos was clearly considering the same notion.

He leaned in, murmuring into Aramis’ ear, “You should not go.”

While that was certainly the preferred option of those presented to him, Aramis was not sure it was one he would survive with his head still attached to his body.

He smiled artfully, the carefully crafted wall of detached indifference firmly in position.

Aramis was not afraid of the King.

He was, however, somewhat afraid of the King’s intentions towards him.

But Athos did not need to know that.

“Stop being a mother hen,” he told his friend with a half-hearted grin. “I can certainly defend my honour before the King.”

Athos’ expression remained completely serious. “He’s your _King_ , Aramis,” he pointed out. “If he desires something of you…” he let his sentence trail ominously, before adding, “Protect yourself,” and squeezing Aramis’ shoulder before stepping aside.

The Red Guard regarded them blankly, before indicating Aramis should follow him.

Aramis took a breath. “What’s one more patron?” he murmured brightly. “There are worse people than the King to have at your back.” He winced as Athos grimaced at him. “Ah, poor choice of words,” he admitted, before following in the Red Guard’s wake.

“Be careful,” he heard Athos murmur from behind him.

“I’m always careful,” he returned, swallowing as he strode after the guard.

* * *

Although he’d never been in the King’s private rooms before, they were, not surprisingly, exactly as Aramis had imagined them. 

Opulent gold brocade strung above the windows, expensive-looking tapestries lining the walls, and at least three portraits of King Louis staring down at him with oddly lifeless eyes.

The actual King Louis was standing by the window, artfully arranged as if he had been fascinated by something outside and was completely taken aback by Aramis’ sudden appearance in his apartments.

“Ah, Aramis,” he said brightly, as if he hadn’t completely forgotten his name a few minutes previously, and Aramis took a step further into the room, largely due to the Red Guard behind him suddenly shoving him in the small of his back with the hilt of his sword.

Aramis managed to turn the stumble into a bow, scowling over his shoulder at the retreating guard before turning his attention back to the King.

“Your Majesty,” he said politely, trying not to appear too alarmed by the sound of a key grinding in the lock behind him.

He swallowed.

Come to think of it, the sight of the King in only his undershirt and minus his silk jacket and sash should also have been a cause for some concern on Aramis’ part.

He fumbled with his hat, and the King indicated he should put it on a chair to his left that looked very much as if it had been fashioned from solid gold.

Which it probably had.

Divested of his headgear, he turned back to the King, only then realising he suddenly had nothing to do with his hands.

The King looked him up and down for a second, before looking him up and down some more.

“You could take off your weapons too?” the monarch suggested, and Aramis squinted at him. The King giggled merrily. “Come along, silly. It’s not as if anyone is going to attack me in my own bedchamber while I have a Musketeer in here to protect me!”

Aramis blinked at him. _Bedchamber?_

Glancing beyond where King Louis stood, Aramis was not at all comforted by the realisation that beyond the door behind the King stood the biggest four-poster bed he’d ever seen in his life.

“Uh—” he mumbled stupidly.

King Louis indicated Aramis’ weapons belt with an inclination of his head.

“Weapons,” he reiterated. “Off.” When Aramis didn’t move, he added, “Or I suppose I could always remove them for you…?”

He took a step towards him, and Aramis took an instinctive step back, removing his weapons belt hurriedly before the King could get his hands anywhere near it.

Or him.

Louis beamed at him appreciatively. “You see? That wasn’t so hard, was it? And don’t we feel more comfortable now?”

Truthfully, Aramis had never felt less comfortable in his life.

The King frowned briefly. “You don’t say much, do you?”

Aramis sucked in a breath. “Your Majesty?” he queried, before trying the same words again an octave lower and with marginally less terror in them.

King Louis took another step towards him, and he took another automatic step back, his retreat impeded by his shoulder blades hitting the door behind him.

The door the Red Guard had quite pointedly locked.

Louis inclined his head, eyes slightly hooded. “Look at that,” he quipped. “Nowhere to go.”

“Your Majesty, I’m really not quite sure—” Aramis began to blurt, but was silenced by his King’s forefinger abruptly placed against his lips.

“Shhhh,” the monarch hissed quietly. “I suspect speaking is perhaps not your strongest attribute.”

Aramis swallowed the almost automatic retort that very, _very_ nearly made it to his lips.

“But my goodness you have pretty eyes,” the King continued, removing his finger and instead placing his palm lightly against Aramis’ cheek. “I heard Madame Beaufort say so but only yesterday.”

Aramis mentally rewound the last six months of his life as he tried to remember whether Madame Beaufort had been someone he had...known, or was merely an admirer.

Then he remembered her and shuddered slightly.

Old enough to be his grandmother, and at that age where she was not only wealthy and widowed, but also had wandering hands and absolutely no inhibitions.

Indeed, it might have been Aramis’ eyes she had been complementing to the King, but she had certainly seemed far more interested in his _derrière_ , judging by the unsolicited position of her hands on him.

“That was...nice...of her,” he managed, his voice only sounding slightly less strangled than that time he was _actually_ being strangled by an angry husband who had unexpectedly returned home early in order to surprise his beloved.

And the lady concerned had, indeed, been _very_ surprised.

“You know,” the King said, thoughtfully toying with the fastenings on the front of Aramis’ jacket. “You would be even more comfortable if you took this off too.”

Aramis swallowed. “Sire?”

“It’s very warm in here,” the King continued, fanning himself melodramatically with his hand. “Don’t you think?”

He slowly began to unfasten Aramis’ jacket before sliding it smoothly off one shoulder.

Aramis froze completely.

He’d been undressed enough times by enough women to recognise the look in King Louis’ eyes.

Although he had to admit, even with his extensive experience, he’d never been undressed by a man before.

“Aren’t you hot in this?” the King continued, sliding off the other shoulder of his jacket.

Aramis gulped in a breath. “Actually, maybe I should keep this on as it’s really rather chilly in here—”

The rest of his sentence was swallowed as the King forcibly yanked his jacket off both arms and abandoned it in a puddle of leather on the floor.

The Monarch considered him appreciatively for a moment.

“Oh that’s much better,” the King said, eyeing him thoughtfully.

Aramis didn’t think it was better. He didn’t think it was better at all.

“Do Musketeers earn much in the way of coin?” the King asked suddenly, and Aramis blinked at him stupidly.

“Uh. Sir?”

King Louis shrugged. “It’s just…” He ran the fingers of his right hand over and down across Aramis’ chest, finally coming to rest at his hip. “I think I could find you a much nicer shirt than this one. This is really quite coarse fabric. I’m sure you would look very lovely in silk.”

Aramis frowned at him. He’d never worn a silk shirt in his life. “Sire, I’m quite happy with this shirt. It’s actually my favourite.”

The King squinted at him as if he hadn’t even heard him.

“We should take it off,” he pronounced shortly. “Perhaps find you something nicer to wear—”

“Your Majesty—”

“—At some point. Later.” The King slid one of his braces off his shoulder carefully. “Perhaps in the morning.”

So this evening was not going at all as Aramis had imagined it. Boring guard duty. The King passed out drunk. Party finished. Back to the tavern and hopefully some nice, preferably wealthy, lady who had a space for the night in her bed.

This? This was not at all what Aramis had been expecting to do with his evening.

But still.

At least one part of it might still work to his advantage.

The King had already managed to get his braces off his shoulders and his shirt untucked from his breeches most of the way, so if he was going to do this, he needed to do it sooner rather than later.

“Sire,” he began carefully, “it really is quite chilly in here. I don’t suppose—” 

Again, his sentence was cut short, this time by the King suddenly gripping his hip and shoving him hard against the door, his lips coming into even more sudden contact with Aramis’ neck while the hand not pinning him to the door slid up and under his shirt.

“I have a notion how We could warm you up,” the King muttered against his skin.

Aramis grimaced.

While the Bible taught it was a sin for a man to lie with another man, Aramis had no particular issue with gentlemen who preferred the company of other gentlemen, as long as they did so discreetly. 

However, he had no real desire to partake of the experience himself.

“Sire,” he managed to say, trying to push the King’s mouth off him for a second, without actually making it look like that was what he was doing. “I was actually wondering if you might have some brandy?”

The King paused.

“You know?” Aramis pushed on. “To, uh, perhaps warm me up?”

The King gazed at him carefully, a slight frown crinkling his brow before a bright smile suddenly lit up his face.

“What a splendid idea!” he burst out, releasing the hold he had on him and turning on his heel towards a cabinet over by the window.

Aramis blew out a relieved breath and hurriedly tucked his shirt back into his breeches while the King produced glasses and a crystal bottle from the cabinet.

“I never usually do this myself,” the King said, decanting two glasses of liquid. “Pour my own drinks.” He giggled. “I feel like such a commoner!”

Aramis smiled awkwardly. “Perhaps I could—”

This time he was interrupted by a glass thrust in his face.

He took it, inclined his head in thanks, and downed the contents in one go.

King Louis blinked at him. “You seem to have quite the tolerance for brandy,” he observed, sipping at his own carefully.

Aramis put down his glass and shrugged. “I find the effects are far more interesting if one imbibes the contents rapidly,” he observed innocently.

The King blinked again. “Really?” he sniffed at his beverage thoughtfully, taking another slow sip. “In what way?”

Aramis shrugged. “Well, performance, for one,” he said.

The King frowned.

“Stamina,” Aramis added. “Duration. Skill. Capability—”

King Louis downed his own drink in one swallow.

And promptly began to choke.

“Sire, are you alright?” Aramis asked, already pouring the King another glass.

Which he accepted and downed just as quickly as the first.

“Oh my,” Louis said. “I do believe the room is spinning.”

_On two glasses?_

Although he had already drunk quite the quantity of wine.

Maybe this was going to be easier than Aramis had thought.

“Perhaps we should lay you down, your Majesty?” he suggested.

King Louis seemed far too enthralled by that idea for comfort.

“Oh yes,” he said. “Yes, you should take me to bed immediately!”

Now it wasn’t the first time someone had ever said that to him, but, again, it was the first time Aramis had heard it from a man.

Generally, Aramis had no problem getting people—specifically women—into bed, but manoeuvring a very drunk King through a doorway and into a four-poster as the monarch attempted to simultaneously lick Aramis’ neck and yank his shirt over his head—a feat that would be difficult even whilst sober—proved to be something of a challenge.

Finally, Aramis was able to turn the monarch in such a way as to be able to push him backwards and onto his back, the King landing with an “Oof!” and an hysterical giggle on top of the mattress.

Gravity and grasping hands were not something, however, for which Aramis had accounted, so he was both surprised and decidedly off-balance when King Louis grabbed a fistful of his hair and another fistful of his shirt and managed to pull him down with him.

Finding himself lying on top of his King wasn’t a position Aramis had ever envisaged himself being in, but as Louis somehow found the strength and coordination to flip their relative positions, Aramis suddenly realised lying _beneath_ his King was a scenario even less likely to have occurred in his imagination.

Well this was awkward.

The King was obviously more than happy with their physical arrangement, one hand still gripping a handful of Aramis’ hair while the other continued to venture beneath his shirt.

“Such lovely, soft hair…” Louis murmured, as his mouth found its way back to Aramis’ neck.

“Uh, thank you, Sire?” Aramis managed, wondering for a second whether punching your King in the face and making a run for the door was a hanging offence or a beheading offence and not too keen on finding out the answer.

Then he remembered the door was locked and his options seemed to dwindle significantly from escape and execution to submission and violation, neither of which idea he was particularly enamoured with.

As he pondered, the King’s fingers had managed to find their inebriated way to the buttons on his breeches, while the hand still clutching at his hair gave a sudden tug, at which point Aramis found his head yanked back, all the better to expose more of his neck for Louis’ mouth.

“And did I mention—” the King murmured rather breathlessly, “you have—”

_Kiss._

“—the most—”

_Kiss._

“—beautiful—”

_Kiss._

“—eyes?”

_Kiss._

_Snore._

Wait, what?

_The King was snoring?_

Aramis held his breath for a second, unsure whether to feel affronted—he’d never actually had one of his many amorous acquaintances fall asleep _before_ the main event—or whether to feel relieved he wasn’t about to have to choose between assaulting his King or allowing himself to be assaulted _by_ him.

King Louis snored again, and Aramis decided relief was probably the stronger emotion of the two.

So while his vague plan to get the monarch so drunk he wouldn’t be able to—uh—perform appeared to have been a roaring success, he did now have other obstacles to overcome.

Such as a locked door.

And his King still lying on top of him.

Aramis lay completely still for a second, trying to ignore the nervous hammering of his heart and the little voice in his head telling him if he moved one single iota King Louis would wake and pick up where he left off.

 _You’re a Musketeer, dammit!_ He told himself. _Think of something!_

The something he thought of wasn’t ideal, and didn’t guarantee preserving either his virtue or his life, but he decided he had to take the chance anyway, because that’s what Musketeers did.

Very gently, he began by disengaging the King’s fingers from his hair and then from their position halfway beneath the fastenings on his breeches.

Louis snorted a little, but didn’t wake, and Aramis blew out a short breath while aiming a prayer of thanks Heavenward.

Carefully inching out from beneath the monarch proved to be less of a challenge, King Louis seeming more than happy to transfer the grip he’d had on Aramis to his pillows, and it wasn’t long before the Musketeer was up and off the bed, a little bit disturbed by the way his legs felt like they might give out beneath him.

Taking another breath, he very, _very_ slowly began to creep out of the King’s bedchamber, avoiding the creaking floorboard he’d noticed on the way in.

Glancing over his shoulder as he exited the room, he noted King Louis still appeared sound asleep and he thanked his lucky stars the monarch was one of the few Frenchman he knew who couldn’t hold his brandy.

Retrieving his coat, his hat and his weapons belt, which clanked horribly, causing him to freeze completely in anticipation of a protest from the King that never materialised, he quickly dressed himself, before heading over to the door and quietly trying to open it.

Still locked.

Very well. Plan B.

The window where King Louis had been standing when Aramis first entered the room was a sash window he was fairly sure he should be able to get through. 

The fact that he was on an upper floor of the palace was a complication he might have to deal with later.

He’d jumped out of many windows in his time, not solely to escape potentially homicidal husbands, but generally one of his brothers was always there to break his fall. If he was lucky.

Today, he was fairly sure he wasn’t going to be lucky. Not at three o’clock in the morning, if the chiming of the chapel bell was anything to go by.

Sliding open the window as silently as he was able, he stuck his head out cautiously in order to gauge the length of the drop, relieved he wasn’t as high as he’d been when he’d had to climb out of Adele’s window to escape the Cardinal.

Still, it was a fair fall and he was just trying to decide whether he’d prefer a broken leg to a dislocated shoulder when a hushed voice suddenly hissed,

“Aramis!”

Squinting down into the early morning murk, he saw a dark figure lurking in the undergrowth beneath him, and grinned broadly when he realised perhaps his luck was holding.

“Athos?” he replied in a careful whisper. “That you?”

“No, it’s Joan of Arc,” Athos returned sharply. “Of course it’s me! Who else would you expect to be lurking outside the King’s bedroom window at three o’clock in the morning?”

Aramis shrugged. “Well to be honest, I wasn’t really expecting anyone,” he replied. “How long have you been here?”

Athos sighed audibly. “Perhaps we should postpone our grand reunion until _after_ I’ve helped you defend your virtue?”

Aramis squinted at him. “How do you know my virtue is still intact?” he asked. “The King could have ravished me quite thoroughly for all you know.”

Athos sighed again. “You’ve only been in his rooms for half an hour.”

“Really?” Aramis frowned. It had felt like longer. “Half an hour is all some men need. I understand. Not speaking from personal experience.”

 _“Will you get down here?”_ Athos hissed suddenly, and Aramis figured perhaps his friend’s patience might be wearing somewhat thin.

“Alright, alright, hold on to your breeches,” Aramis said, throwing down his sword and his pistol, which Athos somehow caught silently in the semi-darkness.

The man had reflexes like a cat, Aramis reflected as he climbed up onto the windowsill.

“On my way,” he warned. “Be gentle with me.”

Lowering himself down from the window, he took a breath and allowed himself to drop, feeling Athos catch hold of him around his midriff before he could fall and break anything vital.

The two of them stood looking at each other for a second.

“I’m very touched,” Aramis began at length.

“So I’ve heard.”

Aramis snorted. “That you would hang around in the darkness out of concern for my virtue and wellbeing.”

Athos shifted before slamming Aramis’ sword and pistol against his chest forcefully. “In good conscience, I could not have left you on your own in there,” he admitted, “And the Red Guard seemed determined not to leave his post outside of the King’s rooms, so the window appeared to be your only escape route.” He glanced back up at the window, before adding, “And besides. Protecting damsels in distress is part of the Musketeer code.”

Aramis squinted at him again. “Not that I am in any way offended by being described as a damsel in distress,” he said, “but thank you all the same.”

Athos inclined his head. “You’re welcome. I presume the King did not succeed in having his wicked way with you?”

“He did not,” Aramis confirmed. “Although it was touch and go for a while. It turns out, the man cannot hold his brandy.”

“He fell asleep on you?” Athos stifled an incredulous snigger.

Aramis shifted slightly. “In ordinary circumstances, I would perhaps be somewhat affronted. But not today.”

Athos smiled minutely. “No. Be thankful. Let’s just hope when he wakes in the morning, he remembers none of this.”

Aramis nodded his agreement. “Although I am told I am not that easy to forget.”  
  


* * *

In the name of the Almighty Father, this was dull.

Aramis shifted slightly, rebalancing his sword on his hip as he tipped his hat at the giggling ladies in waiting who passed by in the corridor.

“You never learn, do you?” Athos commented from across the hall, and Aramis merely shrugged innocently.

“It’s not my fault women like me,” he pointed out.

Athos squinted at him as the King’s voice floated down the hallway. “And men also, apparently,” he added.

“I had the oddest dream, Richelieu,” the King was saying, his voice sounding a tiny bit gravelly and the worse for wear.

“Really, Your Majesty?” the Cardinal replied, catching Aramis’ eye as he glanced over in his direction from his and the King’s position in the antechamber.

Aramis resisted the temptation to scowl at him, merely smiling blandly.

Richelieu returned his attention to his King, who was rubbing at his head. “Gosh, and such a headache. That must have been a fabulous party I threw last night! I barely remember any of it!”

Athos glanced at Aramis pointedly, who merely shrugged.

“But the dream I had…” King Louis was continuing. “Most odd indeed. I had a Musketeer in my bedroom.”

Aramis nearly choked and Athos completely failed to stifle a grin.

“Really, Majesty?” Richelieu replied, again glancing in Aramis’ direction. “That _is_ odd. Why would you have had a Musketeer in your bedroom?”

The King frowned at him. “Indeed. Unless I was in danger.” He sighed. “Even in my dreams I am under threat.”

Richelieu nodded. “Indeed, Sire. The burdens of command.” He glanced at Aramis again, before adding, “Just out of idle curiosity, which of the Musketeers did you dream was—uh—protecting you?”

King Louis thought about that for a moment. “Their names are all so similar,” he sighed. “The dark-haired one with the pretty eyes,” he added. “And he has lovely hair. I would wager it’s very soft.”

The Cardinal frowned. “You perhaps refer to the Musketeer Aramis,” he said, again meeting Aramis’ gaze, and the sense of deja vu was really quite disturbing.

The King seemed to shake himself from his reverie. “Yes, that’s the one,” he said on a slight frown. “Very odd that I should be dreaming about him. I’m sure I dreamed he got me drunk…”

Richelieu very obviously resisted the urge to smirk. “He has something of a reputation, Majesty,” he said, steering King Louis away from Aramis’ direction. “Now I believe the Minister for Trade is awaiting your presence.”

“Oh, tiresome man,” the King murmured. “He doesn’t have pretty eyes at all.”

Athos glanced at Aramis as the King departed, obviously not resisting the urge to smirk the way the Cardinal had.

“What?” Aramis demanded, straightening a little.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Athos said.

Aramis narrowed his gaze.

“You’re completely forgettable in the bedroom.”

Aramis returned Athos’ smirk with one of his own. “Or I’m so _difficult_ to forget I inspire _royalty_ to dream about me, even when their actual memory has been clouded by alcohol.”

Athos nodded. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, my friend,” he said. “That was probably the only time you’re ever likely to find yourself in bed with a monarch anyway.”

Aramis shrugged at him. “In the King’s case, that’s a relief,” he said. But couldn’t resist adding, “But you never know what might lie in the future.”

**The end**

  
  
  
  
  



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